


Want, Need, Wait

by kinkandquiet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Desperation, Kink, M/M, Omorashi, Praise Kink, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:51:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinkandquiet/pseuds/kinkandquiet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock plays a desperate game with himself. Some games are best played in pairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want, Need, Wait

**Author's Note:**

> There is angst, and then there is pee. This story contains (read: is entirely about) Sherlock desperation/watersports.

In every situation, Sherlock simply wanted to understand. In this situation, he hardly understood himself.

The case was driving him mad, and despite John's well-intentioned placating it wasn't just the case that had him pacing, tapping his foot when he was forced to stand still, moving his arms sharply so they didn’t drift below his belt. His body was as tightly wound as his mind. He'd been holding it so long the intense need to piss had become the default.

Sherlock rarely needed anything. What others saw as necessities--food, sleep, shelter, companionship--were neither necessary nor needed. He could and he would grow thin and pasty and cold and speak only to a skull, and it did not affect his ability to solve mysteries; it did not stem the flow of his thinking. All Sherlock truly needed were his mind and a track to set it on.

Yet, the feeling of need intrigued him. Need blurred his thoughts out and made everything pulse; need made his body a real and vulnerable thing, palpable and pulsing.

And he enjoyed this feeling. Somehow. Inexplicably.

Sherlock experimented with the things others called needs. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep. He talked to a skull and lived alone, until John Watson.

John brought Sherlock crisps and tea, let him sleep on the sofa and at the kitchen table and in cabs and the bathtub and in John's bed without a word of true complaint. Often time Sherlock woke under a blanket John had draped over him in the night. John thought Sherlock needed. Sherlock wanted to show him how he didn't.

There was need and there was want.

Sherlock wanted John to see. He wanted John to see how disciplined he was. Sherlock wanted John to see how he could control himself, how he could outlast all those human needs to be something better and more brilliant. He wanted John to call him brilliant and good.

It didn't make sense. It wasn't logical. It was all filled with want.

His motivations were hopelessly idiosyncratic. He wanted John to call him good again; an experiment in not urinating would not prompt John to do that. It gave him a thrill to control every aspect of his body; it gave him a thrill to think of losing all control. He did not like feeling thrills; he liked it too much. He had to pee badly; he didn't want to.

The cab rolled over a pit in the street and Sherlock did not press his thighs together.

John was not going to call him brilliant or good. John would not compliment his self control. He wouldn’t look at Sherlock with the tilt of his head and light in his eyes that meant Sherlock was good, just because John said so. That was not a realistic response. John was going to purse his lips and shake his head and say, _Sherlock, you haven't deleted the toilet, have you? Sherlock, you really are a child. Sherlock, why is there piss on my shoes?_

Sherlock knew all this, but when the cab pulled up and John stepped forward and Sherlock’s bladder pulsed it was so full, he folded into a hard seat, closed his eyes, and pretended he could hear the words in John's voice, _Good, Sherlock, really good._

His spine ached and his trousers pressed uncomfortably against his abdomen and his eyes stung and his knee began to bounce despite desperate efforts to hold very still.

John's amusement pierced his concentration. "Christ, How have you got the energy to fidget? I'm knackered."

Sherlock snapped his eyes open and forced his face into a blank to address John as if everything was normal and fine and not about to burst on the seat of a cab with a driver up front and John a seat away, looking at his face.

“Cases never tire me. Boredom tires me.” That, and it was no longer a question of having the energy to fidget but of not having the control to hold still.

Sherlock despised the feeling of weakening control. He could still feel the trembling in the muscles of his leg. He grasped his knee and forced it down. A throb permeated his abdomen. He held very still.

When the spasm passed, Sherlock mercilessly edged his knees out until they formed the exact angle they would have if he weren’t dying to pee. His knees still trembled, imperceptible to John or the driver, but aggravating to Sherlock. He placed a hand on each knee and pressed down. Then he closed his eyes, blanked his expression, and forced himself to wait for Baker Street. It wasn’t far. It wasn’t too far, anyway. It was never too far.

Everything taunted him. Road noise and cars passing transformed into rivers rushing through his hazy mind. Sweat beaded on his neck and back. Tendrils ticked his spine. John was making noise.

"Sherlock. Are you listening to me?"

"Were you speaking?"

John's soft laugh awakened the part of Sherlock that would have been paying attention. This part wanted all of John. He turned and found John grinning at him, thrilled in his post case exhaustion—post unsolved case, Sherlock reminded himself.

"You're honest, you are. At least you're honest."

Sherlock met his gaze with some confusion. "What else would I be?"

"Polite," John offered. "Don't bother. You wouldn't have a talent for it."

"I won’t bother." Sherlock shifted at a traffic light.

John turned towards the window to grin. He imagined he was being subtle. Sherlock could see his reflection. “Right. Good.”

 _Very good._ John hadn't meant to, but his voice radiated a heat from Sherlock's core that was distinctly uncomfortable in his current state and exactly what he wanted.

But beside him, John’s attention drifted out the window.

Sherlock couldn't know what John would say to this. They'd never done anything like what he imagined. He had let John see him in other ways and he had been allowed to see--catalog, memorize, keep--John in return. He had been allowed to touch and touched in return. This was different. This wasn't allowed.

Perhaps John knew his thoughts--but that was absurd. It was the heat of his neck that meant an involuntary flush was visible over his coat collar and it was the angle of his body, tilted with his chest open towards John, leaning further sideways when the momentum of the cab wanted to pull him in the other direction. That was what John saw and it was why he placed his hand on Sherlock's thigh. He tapped his thumb once, licking his lips, still looking out the window.

It was a touch of a question. _Can I touch you more?_ Sherlock hoped John wouldn't notice the trembling of his thighs when he shifted into John’s hand. _God, yes._

The need to piss didn't make him hard but John's hand did so fast Sherlock bit back a wild sound. John sucked in a breath.

The erection helped. It buried the now constant thrum of desperation under a veil of arousal, and although he was still desperate he no longer fought to hold himself back. Instead, his body yearned for more, and he felt too hard to piss.

The relief was magnificent. Sherlock moved soundlessly closer to John, shifting his hips and widening the angle of his thighs. With a glance towards the inattentive cabbie, John took his invitation. He rolled his palm over Sherlock's clothed cock.

The cotton of his underpants, the grit of his trousers’ zip, and the pressure of John's hand nearly had Sherlock entirely sideways in John's lap across the backseat of the cab. John noticed and gave his shoulder a gentle push. Sherlock straightened himself, biting his lip against pathetic gratitude when John didn’t remove his hand but gave his cock two stiff squeezes instead.

John's couldn't know how badly he'd been needing to do that or how good it felt to have a hand secure around him. It was one desire among many that he would not allow himself.

He kept his expression carefully blank and his gaze pointed forward and John kept his mouth shut. He squeezed a third time, tapping his fingers along Sherlock's thigh in a familiar rhythm. Halfway through tabulating the rhythm, John's hand vibrated.

Sherlock did make a startled noise then. John blinked. He reached into Sherlock pocket and tugged out his mobile.

Sherlock swallowed his groan.

"Text in... some sort of code." John's voice thrummed with suppressed arousal. "Could be related to the case?"

He tilted the phone so Sherlock could see it. Their cryptographer had finally come up with something useful. An address; the code simply to show off. Sherlock took his phone to perform a search.

John watched his fingers move over the keys. "We're not going home."

"No."

John stretched his jaw, rolled his shoulders, and settled back with a nod. "You'll solve this."

"Yes."

"Yeah. Good. Where are we headed?"

He slipped his mobile back into his pocket and drew his hand sharply away. “Special collections room, John. Our cryptographer believes we’ll find what we’re looking for there.”

“What, the library? It’s the middle of the night. They’re not open.”

“Locked doors. Only a problem if you’re using the door.”

“Oh, no.” John leaned back and laughed. Sherlock didn’t allow himself be be distracted by the remains of arousal in John’s posture or the surging desperation in his own. He leaned forward and read the address to their cabbie.

The cab slowed, turned, and drove away from Baker Street and relief.

Part of Sherlock writhed. The part of himself that he acknowledged thrilled at a break in the case.

Without the heavy presence of John's palm or the swirl of arousal low in his stomach the need to piss grew intense, but Sherlock had been forcing it back for ages and another few moments to solve a mystery would hardly make a difference. The needs of his body wrestled with the intrigues in his mind and his body lost.

He adjusted his trousers and filled his mind with the codes of the current case. He'd adjusted himself twice more before they were halfway to their destination. By the time they reached the library he'd tucked his hands under his legs to keep from grabbing himself with each bump in the road.

The burst of cold air as he tossed himself from the cab did not improve his situation. For the first time, Sherlock doubted his own control. He looked towards the dark crevices of the old building. Overwhelming fantasies burst into his mind. He could walk two steps from the pavement and piss in the grass. He could tell John to look for a suitable window for entry and John would never have to know this failing. Sherlock could turn away and relieve himself against the craggy brick of the building in front of him. It would be easy.

He didn’t want to. He abhorred _easy_.

John was walking towards the library and Sherlock couldn't follow, it was far too slow, so he pushed past John and strutted for the first properly shadowed window.

He’d had breaking and entering down to an art since the age of seven. This window failed to succumb to his prying. The pick vibrated with the shaking of his hands; the lock didn’t move when he willed it. His bladder quivered and protested every moment. He clenched his jaw against frustrated swearing, hyper aware of John’s scrutiny a step away. Concrete seeped rough cold up through his knees. The icy fingers clenched and squeezed in his stomach.

He'd made a mistake. He’d waited too long and drank too much. He couldn't concentrate. He was hard from John's touching him; he wanted to touch John; he wanted to piss right then, in his clothes in the cold on his knees. His desires tore him in all directions.

“Huh.” John’s voice made his hand flinch and catch in the windowpane. “Maybe we’ve finally found something I’m better at than you are. Let me have a go.”

“Doubtful.” Sherlock straightened and surrendered the lock-pick. John could have the lock open in less than five minutes. It would be under three now that Sherlock had challenged him.

Sherlock’s gaze shot traitorously to the dark corners only steps away. He couldn’t, he needed to, he _wouldn’t_. He was the master of his body, not the other way round.

“There we are.” John stood as he pushed the glass up, the very image of smugness. Sherlock checked his watch. Two minutes, seven seconds. Not bad.

Sherlock ducked through the window, leaned against the wall, and crossed his legs. Oak floorboards creaked under his weight. A fraying red rug took up the center of the room where bookcases didn’t stand. They were already in the back room where the special collections slept. It was only the right book they had to find now and all the information Sherlock had been searching for in his head would be at his fingertips. Nothing else would register. Certainly?

As much as controlling his needs filled him with want, the thought of losing that control had him faltering. Doubt grasped him. What if instead of brilliantly solving a case, John watched him wet himself?

The window clacked shut as John made it through and came to lean against the wall at his shoulder.

No. Sherlock breathed in and grasped onto his control. No, simply no.

John made a soft sound that drew Sherlock's attention. John's eyebrows lifted and his gaze stroked down and then up Sherlock's body.

"All right," John lifted his chin. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock affected a distracted, confused tone. "Wrong?"

"A minute ago you were fidgeting like mad to get out of the cab; now that we're here you're holding the wall up?"

John couldn't know why. Perhaps he'd be angry if he knew, like he was sometimes when Sherlock couldn't remember when he'd last eaten or why it mattered. It was best not to say anything now.

“I’m fine.”

John made an unimpressed noise. Sherlock wanted to impress him.

With a steadying breath, he pushed himself from the wall and began to examine the books lining the shelves. He withdrew the most promising titles, jammed his thighs together, and told his body it would wait.

Carefully selected book after carefully selected book formed a pile and then a tower. When Sherlock finally sat at a heavy wooden desk he buried his left hand in his lap and used his right to flip open the first book. By the time he’d got to the fifth, both hands were on the table and he’d dove into a palace of information.

If John spoke at him, Sherlock didn’t hear it, and at one point he looked up to see John settled in the corner reading. Fiction, John licking his lips in that thoughtful way as he read, and Sherlock wanted to comment but a symbol of code aligned itself with the others in his mind and he was sucked back into his thoughts once more.

He was flipping through miles of manuscripts in languages he was learning as he went when he flipped a page and all at once his focus came crashing back to his body.

Sixteen careful lines of complicated code dropped from his mind and he stared uncomprehending at the old books. His pants flashed wet with piss. A cramp struck his middle so powerfully that the breath he released in surprise sounded more like a desperate gasp than was dignified. 

John looked up from his book. "Found something?"

"No."

Sherlock gritted his teeth and flipped pages. What had he been reading? He'd just become aware that he'd been listening to the first sprinklings of rain on the roof for the last ten minutes and a rush of pee was bursting at the tip of his penis.

"What, then?" John stood and walked over.

"Nothing." Sherlock jerked back from the books in frustration, throwing one hand on the table and the other into his crotch. "There's nothing. These manuscripts tell me nothing. They, they’re stupid, they’re--"

"The books are stupid."

Sherlock moved his hand wildly. "Or I am."

He flung himself to his feet in an aimless dash but John grabbed his arm and tugged him back. He was smiling and looking at Sherlock with affection, like Sherlock deserved affection when he couldn't crack the code and he could barely control his own body.

"You're smart."

He closed his eyes. "I’m aware."

"You can leave one mystery unsolved and still be smart."

"You’re wrong."

“You need a break.”

John's closeness was a bit too much, his affection a bit warm and his mouth suddenly on Sherlock’s. Sherlock could move against John and taste him and take him in, perhaps disappear into the comfort of John’s body. He didn't truly intend to but he was leaning into John entirely, clenched fingers grasping John’s shoulder and forearm while John’s hands found their way to Sherlock's thighs.

He'd given John the wrong idea. Or rather the right one without the most pertinent information. From the scene in the cab, John knew he wanted this—John knew Sherlock wanted him. If anything, John had always been willing to give himself to Sherlock.

Sherlock squirmed, his muscles flexing under John's hands, his head tipping back in dizzy urgency.

"You’re in a state," John mouthed the ridge of his throat, eliciting a hitched breath. "Do you like that?"

When Sherlock chose tactful silence, for this situation was doomed to disaster, John nipped his neck for attention, his other hand warming up Sherlock's chest, stroking over clothes from groin to nipples.

"Do you?" John nudged him again. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock breathed out. "Perhaps."

"What do you like?" John drew back, just enough that his breath, quickened with arousal, tickled Sherlock’s skin. "I can tell it's something. Something you're not telling me. You want something. You _want_. What is it?"

That was a bit too perceptive. Sherlock pushed into John's space rather than drawing out of it, kissing to distract.

"Tell me?" John whispered, but Sherlock couldn't and wouldn't and now he was hard as well as desperate. The need for John won out against the need for relief. The need for John always won out.

Sherlock's pressed into him, folding his protesting body around John’s comfortable strength. John’s moan fed right into Sherlock’s when their groins brushed. Sherlock hooked his leg around John's and hitched them closer together. The pressure of John’s tented trousers felt too good against Sherlock’s own. The hot stones of John’s palms swept from Sherlock's shoulders over his chest and down the lines of his stomach directly over his bladder.

John's touch made vivid contact with his swollen abdomen, leaving Sherlock to gasp silently, jerking his hips into John’s. His overfull bladder spasmed, sweat prickled the back of his neck and turned cold. John's palm pressed on his bladder and his cock jumped with a hot spurt of piss. John hummed in throaty appreciation when Sherlock writhed against him.

"Christ, but you like that. Do that again," John murmured, and Sherlock realized he'd made a sound suspiciously like a whimper. John took to having Sherlock gasping under his fingers. He stroked with heavy hands every plane on his body, back to bottom to belly until Sherlock was shuddering, caught between pleasure and pain and pure disgrace, when John’s massage landed it’s full weight on the sensitive curve of Sherlock's bladder and his other hand slipped lower, under the waistband and into Sherlock's trousers.

He was helpless to stop it.

Fingering the head of Sherlock’s cock through a thin layer of cotton, a needy surge of piss greeted John’s hand.

John’s warm hands froze. Sherlock watched in passive horror as John’s eyes darted to his crotch and widened. It had been too much, the pressure and the leak he’d let go. Sherlock didn’t have to look down at himself to know John was staring at a dark and glistening patch on his trousers.

John pulled his hand back, his knuckles coldly teasing the swell in Sherlock’s abdomen.

"Sherlock?"

There was an awful noise from his throat at that, low and animal like. John's expression pinched.

This was what he'd been reduced to, groaning and moaning and pissing into John's hand. It was disgraceful. Sherlock closed his eyes against it. It didn't help the urgent spasms from his bladder or the almost palpable weight of John’s scrutiny. 

"Are you—have you needed to piss?"

He clenched his jaw. It was disgraceful and acutely terrifying, the thought that he might lose control here, now, right now. He managed to grit out, “No.”

John’s response was a sharp stab of a laugh. He lifted his hand and looked at his palm. Sherlock could hear the echoes of it in his head, what John must be thinking. _Sherlock, why is there piss on my shoes? Sherlock, why is there piss on my hand?_

“Sherlock,” John’s voice broke through. “Jesus, I thought you were... the eating and sleeping is one thing, but this is... what is this?”

“Stop,” Sherlock said, voice loud. “No, stop. Stop. Go back.”

“No, really, what is this?” John searched out a gaze that Sherlock determinedly did not meet. “A moment ago, I thought we were... God, I’m sorry. No, am I sorry?”

Sherlock stayed silent. His legs twisted together on their own volition. He couldn’t move.

An unexpected gentleness tinged John’s voice. “You need a piss.”

Trust John to state the obvious and make it feel like a revelation.

“Yes,” his voice cracked out.

It is was no longer a desire to hold back or to let go. It was need. Overwhelming need that couldn’t be ignored or made to wait further, not for codes or cases or the sheer masochistic pleasure of not allowing himself. Not even for the cause of avoiding complete humiliation in front of the only man whose opinion mattered.

“Okay,” another huff of a surprised laugh, less of a stab to Sherlock’s gut but dull, aching, and something he imagined would scar. “Okay. Probably say something next time. Not that it’s--oh no, look, it’s fine.” John’s fingers, previously hot and sure in full strokes, now pressed feather light to his collarbone. John pursed his lips and looked uncertain of his own pity. “Is this an experiment?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to lie brilliantly. What came out sounded nothing like language.

“Not an experiment,” John concluded for himself. “What, then?”

“Deduce it.” He’d found language, or at least some parrot version of it. It hadn’t been the right language, because Sherlock didn’t want John to say it: freak and fetish.

John rubbed his forehead, looked away from Sherlock’s tensed and twisted body and back. “I don’t know--or I do. Because a moment ago I was certain you were enjoying that, and I can’t help but notice you haven’t exactly run for the toilet yet.”

“No,” Sherlock breathed. He was imagining it. He was holding himself still. He was not letting himself run--there was nowhere to go--and he could see John take note.

“It’s a kink?” Half question, half deduction. “You’ve got a piss kink, or you’re experimenting with one.” John visibly sucked in a breath. “That or you’ve just ignored the toilet like you ignore everything else you need and this is a bit like that time you passed out.”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed. He interrupted before John could question him further. “Yes, to all of that. Good deduction.”

“Right,” John shook his head as he said it. “That. All of that, about the kink at least, that’s something that people talk about. People who have sex, I mean. Not-- but not right now, because you’re about to piss yourself.”

“No, I...” Sherlock shuddered and then forced himself to stop. “I can control myself.”

A bright heat of arousal flushed John’s skin. The sex returned to his gaze as needs and wants of his own turned over in his head.

“Is that what it’s about? That's your kink." John’s licked his lips as his eyes roamed up and down Sherlock. “You, trying to control yourself like you always do, but you’re so desperate you can’t stand it and you,” John bit his lower lip, “you piss yourself. You can’t help it. That’s a bit bad."

Sherlock winced and retracted. The movement only made it worse and a burst of pee touched the head of his cock. He doubled over and shoved a hand into his crotch. He closed his eyes with his clenched body, not wanting to see the look on John’s face. Sherlock could feel his whole body go hot and heavy and full in his stomach at the humiliation of that, the opposite of what he’d meant, the opposite of control.

Oh, and doubled over like a desperate little boy was no better.

He forced himself to straighten up to his full height, tearing his hand from his leaking cock despite wanting--so much, just please--to hold on.

"No," John said all of a sudden. "No, sorry. That wasn't it, was it?"

Sherlock opened his eyes.

"That's not what I meant." John’s hand drifted to Sherlock’s ribs. "I meant--I meant good. You’re good."

It was one of the few times Sherlock found himself unable to speak. Something beyond words had filled the place where they usually lay ready to spill out.

John's touch firmed.

"I knew you wanted something." His tone rose with satisfaction, like when he'd guessed one out of many wrong things right. John's hand swept down and hovered over the top of Sherlock’s trousers, his fingertips pressing lightly under Sherlock's navel. "You're desperate. You're not pretending. You're so desperate you're nearly pissing right here. That can't have happened quickly."

Shivers spread from John's fingertips over his skin. Sherlock opened his mouth but only managed to make a pathetically small sound.

"Is that right?" John continued, undeterred by Sherlock's wordless, desperate state. "Have you made yourself hold it?"

Their eyes met. John’s were still steady and warm. Sherlock made himself assent with a nod.

John murmured. "I see. All right.”

“John.”

“I think I know what you want, but I want you to tell me."

Sherlock throat was dry and wordless.

"Ask me." John’s eyes were glazed, his lips parted, his cheeks tinged pink. "Ask me for what you want. I want to give it to you."

Sherlock opened his mouth and failed once more. He licked his lips, tried again, and his voice cracked in the air. "Say good again."

"Good. Really good." John’s gaze flicked up to meet Sherlock's as he gave a fluttering smile. "Aren't you good, love."

"Pet names, John?" His voice was alien and rough to his own ears, but at least he had found it.

John mouth moved into genuine pleasure. "Fine. Aren't you good, _Sherlock_."

All it took was for John to believe it.

He wanted to be better. Every second, better for John, more worthy, more interesting for him. Good, better, best. Perfection personified.

His attention shifted and settled in his full bladder as it heaved. A sound filtered to the lowest levels of awareness in his mind until it blared through him. Rain was splattering at rare intervals. It pounded a beat. It resonated, pressure bursting and concluding in another hopelessly small dribble into Sherlock’s pants.

"You all right?" John asked, voice low and calm, but the bulge in his trousers giving away his interest.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No?" he heard John ask. "You're not all right?"

Sherlock gritted out, "I'm going to piss on the floor."

"Oh."

Sherlock groaned.

John's hand appeared on his shoulder, warm and unmoving. "That's the point, isn't it? You want to?"

"No." Raw terror took up residence in Sherlock’s throat. "I've never done that. I wouldn't, John.”

John's thumb was moving now, forming thoughtful circles over Sherlock’s collarbone. "You don't want to lose control."

True and yet not. Fascinating paradox. The distraction of John’s touch should have only been a minuscule relief from the need permeating his body, but it felt like a massive one.

"How are you to keep from losing control?"

Sherlock’s voice stumbled over the hateful words: “I don’t know.”

John's hand paused at his answer. Sherlock leaned into it and the stimulation of nerves returned, if lighter and distracted now. Then the motion changed, gaining a certain roughness, a certain intention of motion that Sherlock recognized.

"You've been so good, haven't you?" John said. "You've been brilliant, the amount of control you have over yourself. Christ, in the cab, that's why you were fidgeting so much, wasn't it?"

The thought that he'd been noticeably fidgeting when he'd been trying so hard not to grated already raw pride.

"I thought you were just restless," John went on. "Post case adrenaline. Horny. I put my hand on you, felt you up, not knowing how desperate you must have been."

"Don't tease me.”

"I'm not," John responded. Sherlock looked at him hard and saw only focused interest. "I'm really not. You turned towards me. You almost collapsed into my lap right there in the cab. Was it better or worse, having my hand on you?"

When Sherlock said nothing, John pressed his thumb down.

"That last bit was a question."

"Better. Obviously it was better."

“Good.” John moved his hand from Sherlock's shoulder down his front to press between his legs. His fingers clenched and he squeezed firmly.

With a moan he couldn’t stop, Sherlock collapsed into John. Only it was difficult to manage, both of them standing, and Sherlock ended up curled over John's stocky frame, his crotch pressed hard into the offered fist. John held on firmly and rubbed his fingers over Sherlock clothed cock. His own erection pressed against Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock's breath caught.

“Do you want to know what I want?”

Sherlock didn’t have to move, or nod, or indicate at all the compulsive desire to know everything. This John knew: Sherlock always wanted to know, especially when it came to John.

"I want you to lose control." Mercy that John’s grip didn't loosen with his words. "You’re already losing it. I can feel it. You're just as brilliant when you do let go, you know. Look at you, Sherlock, you have no idea. I had no idea." He let out a low, astounded breath. "I want to see you lose control so much I'm as desperate as you are.”

"John," Sherlock gasped out in a panic. He tangled one hand over John’s in his crotch and the other on John’s hip. He whipped his head around looking for anything: a bin, an empty bottle, a potted plant, anything at all. The room was all books.

Stuck in place with glue under his feet, Sherlock looked to John in sheer desperation, but there was nothing for John to offer him in the way of relief; only in controlling himself. Sherlock trembled.

"I need--"

"I know how you need to. Do you want to?"

He did. He wanted to give up all the control--give it to John.

"I want to piss.” The words shuddered out of him. “Please, John.”

Something like pride crinkled by John’s eyes. "Good man."

At that, Sherlock's resolve toppled; his bladder spasmed. Urine jetted into the only place it had to go, the damp cotton turning to soaked. He could hardly hold it back, he hardly wanted to, but oh, his pride, and he grasped his control and barely held on.

"Where?" Sherlock doubled over and shoved both hands between his legs when John was forced out of his way. Genuine distress broke through the game of control, “John, _please_.”

“God, that’s good,” John’s voice was heavy with arousal, his steps quick and hard on the floor. “You’ve got to say that more often. All right, I know, you’re bursting. Just hold on a few seconds longer.”

“Please,” Sherlock broke again. His world had shrunk to a pinpoint ready to burst. Nothing was left of his vision but the red carpet he could see curled over in a hopeless attempt to contain himself, and every nerve in his body pulsed with a need so great it washed over him in waves.

Across the room, John clacked open the window. The sound of water dripped nearly did Sherlock in. The pinpoint of his world blew out the window and into the rain.

“John,” his name came out something disturbingly close to a sob. “Don’t. I can’t.”

Sherlock had never needed to piss so badly. It had never mattered so much that he didn’t piss. The control had never been so important as it was when he wanted to give it to John. There was no control to offer John if he lost it now.

His body hardly cared. He was pissing himself already. The cloth around his cock was wet; tendrils trickled down the inside of his trousers, wetting his trembling thighs, teasing more to escape, cracking the hard rock of his control. And John--he needed John.

“I know.” John’s hands came to his hips and Sherlock jutted them forward in a desperate plea.

John’s hands moved from Sherlock’s hips straight to the clasp of his belt, drawing the leather and undoing the buckle that would be an impenetrable barrier to Sherlock in his current state. The damp, desperate leaks in his pants didn’t startle or stop John now as he unbuckled, unbuttoned, unzipped, and released the constraints of clothes.

Sherlock’s whole body shifted into it. With the instinctual release of clothing and the overwhelming need to urinate, his body was shifting from holding on to letting go, whether there was anywhere to go or not.

Then he was moving in a part-stumble and part-dash as John led him in dribbling steps to the window. He pressed his full warmth into Sherlock’s back. The front of Sherlock’s thighs scraped across the windowpane, and John tugged him free and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock. He aimed into the tufts of grass outside the library.

"You can have what you need," John replied thickly to Sherlock's quiet mantra of ’I need to piss, I need to piss, John, I need to now.’

John’s words in that voice were more than he needed. His control rushed out in a torrent of piss. The powerful stream that had been coming in trickles and desperately denied waves of desperation flooded the grass. He could hardly bring himself to feel bad for losing this control when it felt so good and John was murmuring at his back, “That’s good, God, you’re so good, Sherlock. That feels good.” 

One hand still cradling Sherlock’s gushing cock, John rubbed the other frantically between Sherlock’s arse and his fully clothed cock, bringing them both pleasure of a kind Sherlock, for all his genius, had never expected.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped into the sheer pleasure, tightening against John’s front, dropping his head back onto John’s shoulder as best he could and biting his jumper to stop helpless moaning. He managed a strangled “Please,” though he was already getting exactly what he wanted and needed. “Please, don’t stop me.”

Sprinkles of rain trickled down and over John’s hand and his cock. John came against his back and pressed his sweaty face into Sherlock’s neck. When Sherlock had been allowed to piss long enough that the stream waned to a dribble before he could finally moan in complete relief, John wrapped both arms around him and turned him back into the little library. John was breathing hard and flushed, the inside of his own pants freshly wet with come when he released Sherlock’s wet cock to pet it with his palm in wild strokes.

Sherlock twisted away from and into John at once. His hand came to grab John’s wrist. “Too much. John.”

“Yes, all right, you’re right,” John moved from rubbing his oversensitive cock to gently tucking him back into his trousers. He buttoned and zipped and buckled Sherlock belt as he breathed in deep gasps that mirrored Sherlock’s own. “That was a lot, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock found silence most tactful. John had orgasmed, and while Sherlock hadn’t he felt as if he’d come from somewhere deep and untouched. It was a ridiculous notion that he didn’t know what to do with.

“Christ, you’re trembling. That really was quite a lot.” John folded them both onto the red carpet, the wood of a desk against their backs. Discarded books lay around them. John’s hand stroked up and down Sherlock’s thigh absentmindedly. Sherlock let his hand crawl onto John’s knee. “That, was. Hell, how you were bursting. You were very good, weren’t you.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock trembled further. It wasn’t cold in the room but he was. His cock was still wet with the rain and the inside of his trousers damp.

“Okay, sure. Good. Fine, I mean.”

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes if he had the energy or the will. As it was, he lay, a trembling mess of the genius he was meant to be, curled half into John. John didn’t push his shoulder so Sherlock would straighten up as in the cab. Rather, John leaned right back into him.

“Was it?” Sherlock asked when he’d managed to gather himself into something he was willing to call Sherlock Holmes.

“What?”

“Was it...” Sherlock licked his lips. “Good.”

“Oh, yes.” John giggled into his ear. He bit lightly. Then he leaned back with a deep breath, nodded and couldn’t seem to stop nodding. “News to me, too, but, God, you’re--you’re brilliant when you let all that control go, that bit’s not news. It’s brilliant. Really, very--”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock finished for him so he wouldn’t say it again. He felt strange. His mind trembled along with his body and in a moment he would return to the codes in the books that surrounded them but right now he could hardly comprehend their titles. He sat leaning into John who thankfully didn’t compliment him again.

“What is it?” John asked once he’d caught his breath.

Sherlock stared blindly at the books. “I needed that.”

“I imagine you did.” John was not one for post-orgasmic snuggling, and Sherlock wasn’t because John wasn’t and John was the only person who he gave or accepted orgasms from. Besides, Sherlock was busy. But now John was a positive weight against him, and he had taken Sherlock’s hand off his knee to hold on. They were holding hands and Sherlock didn’t mind it. He certainly didn’t need it, but he wanted it right then.

What he didn’t say was, _I needed you_. A subtle variation in language, perhaps an obvious fact, but a revelation in his own mind. That, of all the codes, solved something Sherlock had been puzzling over. The rest of the codes would come next, but a burst of satisfaction at that one correct discovery filled his chest.

John chuckled.

“What?” A tremble unlike the others grasped him.

“I can feel you thinking.”

He was too raw not to bristle. “I am always thinking,”

“Not just a few seconds ago you weren’t.” John reached for the closest book and offered it to Sherlock with a self-conscious smile. “That was brilliant, that not thinking thing you just did. We should do it more often.”

Sherlock waved the book away. His eyes never left John. All the data was coming in waves and it was fascinating and new.

John rested the book at his side. “If you’d like to,” he added. “Or if you needed to. Or wanted to.”

“Yes.”

“And you could say please,” John added.

Sherlock kept his voice and expression deliberately flat. “Oh. Please. John.”

The flash of arousal was obvious in John’s eyes before he rolled them. It was a fascinating flash, bright and quick and a bit embarrassed, as if John was the one between the two of them who had anything to be ashamed of.

Sherlock placed his hands on the floor on either side of John and smoothly rolled so he was hovering over him, able to observe every shift in John’s expression, every minuscule change in his body. “Please.”

John’s reaction was nothing less than dazzling. Sherlock recorded it to memory while John gathered himself enough to raise his chin and meet Sherlock’s half teasing, mostly fascinated manner. 

“Maybe if you were very good, I’d let you have what you need.”

“I am very good,” Sherlock returned.

“If you showed me how good you are,” John pressed up to touch Sherlock’s mouth with his own. “If you begged me, just a bit, then I’d let you piss. I’d give you anything you needed. I’d help you let go.”

Sherlock shivered pleasantly. John was full of secrets. Sherlock had miscalculated the risks of laying his own secrets bare. Anything that revealed new depths in John was worth any risk of rejection or disgust.

His arms were shivering when John grasped his elbow. “Sit back, Sherlock. Come on, now.”

It was tinge of doctorly in John’s voice that had Sherlock folding. It was best not to aggravate doctorly: it multiplied so quickly.

When he folded he was still on top of John. John grunted at his weight but made the accommodation without shoving Sherlock off. It was a rather large accommodation, elbows everywhere, but John’s lips pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder in an upward curl.

“Should’ve told me,” John said to his shoulder. “I’m thinking everything I must have missed, now.”

“I didn’t expect you to react... favorably.”

John settled a few of the elbows out of their way. “No, well, you can’t deduce everything. That’s why I want you to tell me. What did you expect, then?”

Silence presented itself as the best option.

“Right,” John said, straightening a bit. Sherlock moved to do the same--what was he doing, lying on top of the man?--but he didn’t get far before John tugged him back down with a glint of steel in his eyes. “Stay a bit?”

Not a request he cared to deny, even if he could.

Sherlock settled. He listened to John’s heart beating. He felt feather light, and in a concession to absurdity that no one had to know about, he took hold of John’s jumper just in case, in the wildest parts of his imagination, he did float away, he’d take John with him.

“You and I,” John said, with a mounting kind of annoyance, “have not had nearly enough time to experiment on each other.”

This Sherlock couldn’t resist. John knew it. The steel in his eyes was hot from the forge now.

“That can be fixed,” Sherlock assured him.

“Yes, it ought to be. We’d like that, I suspect. And for your mind palace,” John tapped the side of his head before stroking his hand through the curls. “I don’t know for sure, but I suspect anything that works for you is going to work for me. And if it doesn’t, I’d at least like the chance to find out.”

“Ah.”

“Trust me a bit."

"Of course." 

John offered him the book once more. Even as they lay there, the codes of the case were rebuilding themselves on the lines of Sherlock’s mind. He took the book this time. He was pleasantly surprised to find John had handed him the last book he’d been reading. He opened it to the page he’d left off on.

They lay in silence for long enough that John had gone soft and sleepy when Sherlock spoke again. “A bit bad is all right."

“Yeah.” John stretched to look at the page of code from Sherlock’s shoulder. "A bit bad sounds very good."


End file.
